#desmoulinsc

[robespierrem-blog]

@desmoulinsc liked for a lyric starter!

“I know this whole damn city thinks it needs you, but not as much as I do.”

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@desmoulinsc

Maximilien is exhausted. Which, honestly, isn’t really uncommon for him. Especially on his rare days off. Someone like him, a well-known lawyer, it’s hard to relax. It’s hard to sleep. It’s hard to even get a second to breathe let alone take time for himself.

But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t give himself today.

The alarm goes off, as usual. It’s habit. Even when he doesn’t have to work, it goes off at six a.m. Maximilien groans a little, feels Brount hop off of the bed and hears him trot over to the closet. It’s routine, but Maximilien doesn’t move. Instead, he grumbles and buries himself closer against the warmth next to him that is Camille.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, reaching over to turn off the alarm. “Force of habit to keep it set--you can go back to sleep if it woke you,” he whispers. Lord knows it’ll be a miracle if he finds it in himself to fall back asleep. Brount has, by now, realized that they’re sleeping in today, and so he hops back up onto the bed to try and sleep as well.

In the meantime, Maximilien will enjoy laying here. If sleep comes, that’s fine. If it doesn’t..well, no surprise there. “Don’t get up for my sake, if that’s what you’re thinking about.”

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@desmoulinsc

It is odd, being on speaking terms with Camille again.

Camille is right, of course: they are in America. It is time to put the past behind them and start anew. The revolution has been abandoned by them. Who knows what has happened to Saint-Just and Couthon and the rest of the Committee. Maximilien doesn’t care to know. His illness from months and months ago still lingers in the form of a cough, of a fever that comes back every now and again, of shiver and aches and pains in his chest that come when he breathes.

Otherwise, he is...content. He has started a new name for himself here as a lawyer, of course. It is a small community. There’s not many cases, but it is enough.

It is here now where he sits on the floor, Horace in his lap, reading to him. The boy is about four now (Maximilien can hardly believe it). When the front door opens, he blinks, looks up and smiles. “Good afternoon, Camille,” he says, bouncing Horace a little in his lap. “I’ve been reading to Horace here. He’s getting rather good at it, I think. A little genius! Isn’t that right, Horace?” A smile, and he lets go of the boy to let him run over to his father. “How’s your day been?”

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@desmoulinsc

Maximilien is drenched in sweat, face as pale as the sheets he lays underneath. He has caught some kind of illness, although it may be because he has hardly seen anyone, or eaten, or slept, or anything. Camille’s death still haunts him everyday in the form of hallucinations, of nightmares, of ghosts mocking him with wicked tongues.

A fever, of course, only adds to the things he sees. Right now, he is alone. The doctors have left him be. We can only let it run its course, hope it doesn’t kill him. But what a blessing that would be.

However, Maximilien does not think that he is alone. These past few days have been spent raving that Camille is here, alive and well. Of course he is! Camille Desmoulins would not let himself be a victim to Madame La Guillotine! Hours upon hours he has spent speaking to no one, speaking to the chair that sits in the corner of his room because that’s where Camille sits. That’s where Camille watches with the same smile on his face, all too real to Maximilien in his pathetic, weakened state.

So when he wakes from a fitful sleep, it is no surprise to him to see Camille there. Like always. Untouched by death. The same as he always was. “C..Camille..” he weakly says, coughing a few times and wincing, feeling it deep in his chest. “You stayed? You didn’t have to stay..” he murmurs, voice weak, feeble. His nightgown is soaked through. “I wish you wouldn’t stay sometimes. You have a wife, a son..I am just sick, not dying..” A weak smile, and he attempts to sit up with little success. “You should go home.”

[robespierrem-blog]

“Let me in—let me in!”

Wuthering Heights || Accepting

“No–go away, go away!”

It is not real–it is not real. Maximilien knows this. He knows the banging on the door, the yelling of Camille…it’s not real. And yet…and yet he leans against the door like that’ll stop him. He tells him to leave like he’s actually here. The room spins. Maximilien is sweating through his night gown. The fever has not gone down in days, and here he is, hallucinating 24/7 because of it.

The banging stops. He pauses. Is it safe? Maximilien closes his eyes for one second, two, three…

He opens them. Camille is inches from his face. Maximilien yelps and scrambles away as laughter echoes around the room. Did you really think you would will me away, Maxime?

How foolish he is to ever think that he can will his guilt away.

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I’ve been over it in my head a million times.

Westworld || Accepting

“Then I understand why it’s so frustrating for you.”

There they are again, well past curfew in their secret place. Maximilien is honestly surprised that they haven’t been caught by now, but no worries. He tilts his head as they sit there, absently holding Camille’s hand and rubbing a thumb across his knuckles.

Camille’s stutter is..well..a stutter. Hesitation. Like the words get caught in his throat, and Maximilien can see why it is so frustrating. What is it like when you have so much to say, but the words don’t come? When you’ve gone over it in your head, but your mouth is still useless?

He supposes he can relate in some way. Anxiousness makes words stop short, leaves his tongue useless while he tries to force it all out. It’s no stutter--more of an all consuming silence..but still.

“I don’t think any less of you for it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he murmurs, offering a small smile. “I don’t mind it at all.”

[robespierrem-blog]

Show me the parts of you that nobody else ever wanted to sleep with. Show me it all with the lights on.

Literary Sexts || Accepting

“Camille..”

Maximilien blushes as they sit there on the bed, glasses askew, breath heavy. It is not what he had been expecting--pretty words whispered against his lips in the dead of night as the moon peeks through the curtains. It is silent except for the sounds of their breathing and the brief rustle of clothes as hands slide underneath his shirt.

For once, he is speechless.

A swallow, and he furrows his brow, shaking his head. His laughter is nervous. “You...you don’t want to see that. You don’t want to see what goes on inside my head, Camille,” he whispers, biting his bottom lip. Their relationship is still new. He does not want to scare Camille away with the demons that lie inside his brain, waiting to strike.

“Please, trust me when I say that. There are parts of me that are darker than you think.”

[robespierrem-blog]

‘ Or was I a worm—too low crawling for death? ‘ ghost / hallucinatory camille fdkjlas

Poetry Prompts || Accepting

“N-no..no..no..”

It is the middle of the night, and here is a familiar scene: Maximilien sitting in bed with the blankets over his head like that might make the voice of Camille leave him alone. It has been like this for weeks now. Guilt is a terrible thing, manifesting itself in ways that plague Maximilien and leave him a shell of who he was.

Normally, he does not speak to the hallucination. It only feeds it. His mind is a terrible place, and it does not need Maximilien’s words to guide the hallucinations. It thrives alone, but when he speaks, it makes it worse. He knows this, and yet...

“That’s not it, that’s not--”

He still hasn’t come out from underneath the blankets. Perhaps if he stays here long enough, his mind will have mercy on him. He can never tell. Still, he can feel it hovering, foreboding, staring at him. Camille’s eyes burn holes where Maximilien lays and he still does not move. “Go away, go away, Camille, just leave me alone-!”